


Control

by bonebo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Abuse, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Rape/Non-con Elements, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call it <i>reconditioning.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cresnoir](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cresnoir).



They call it _reconditioning._

All he remembers of his capture is a blow to his helm hard enough to make his vision blur, then the impact of his wings on cold, hard ground; looking up into the face of the Decepticons, purple mask and red optics and a purr in a dark voice as Tarn spoke.

“We're going to make you _good_ again.”

Then darkness.

\---

When Black Shadow awakes next, the first thing he's aware of is the cold metal strapped between his teeth. He squirms minutely and can feel the bonds around his wrists and ankles, the cold table beneath him, a sharp pain in his shoulders; he onlines his optics, and immediately is bombarded by internal alarms blasting on his HUD—a mess of one alert right after another, all red-flagged with priority and popping up as soon as another is closed, crimson blurs too fast for him to even read—

The feeling of something cool dripping onto his faceplate gives him pause. He exits out of all his alarms, certain that whatever is so important will come up again later, and cuts his gaze up.

And then he screams.

Pinned to the ceiling with huge, ugly clamps are his wings, _his beautiful wings,_ torn raggedly from his frame and still leaking energon—crude Decepticon emblems have been daubed onto them with purple paint, and Shadow is so horrified and transfixed by the grotesque display that he doesn't even hear heavy footsteps until they stop right beside his helm.

“ _Gorgeous_ , isn't it?” Tarn purrs, gazing up at the ceiling fondly, his engine humming a deep, content bass; Shadow's noises of rage and distress are muffled by the gag, but Tarn ignores them anyway. He grabs Shadow's chin and squeezes, making sure that the Phase Sixer keeps his gaze up—as if he could look away. “Modern art. I call it _Rehabilitation, Part I_.”

He releases his grip on Black Shadow's chin roughly before he slowly walks around the table the Phase Sixer lies upon, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His engine hums loud enough for Black Shadow to feel it in his very core, shaking him to pieces.

“It's the first modification of _many_ ,” Tarn starts, cutting a glance Shadow's way, his voice mild. “To remind you of what exactly you are—a frame created _by_ the Decepticons, _for_ the Decepticons, to be used as the Decepticons see fit. We're going to _rehabilitate_ you, _fix_ you—make you _good_.” 

Black Shadow is so focused on Tarn, watching the heavy steps he takes around the berth, that he doesn't even notice more mechs have joined them until a thick cloth is pressed over his optics. He yowls in alarm and bucks, immediately struggling, but the bonds around his wrists and ankles hold fast; he finds himself immobilized as hands start to grope over his frame, feeling out for sensitive wires or sore joints, any weakness to exploit. One thinner hand catches on the edge of his interface panel, giving it a tug—Tarn's voice speaks in words Shadow doesn't know and then the panel is ripped away, making him howl.

“ _Relax_ , Black Shadow,” Tarn murmurs, voice suddenly close by his audial, low and purring; Shadow whimpers in response, hips jerking fitfully as someone's fingers spread the lips of his valve, baring it to the cold air. “They're _mostly_ minor adjustments. And if you're _very good_ , we might even remove them...once you've been _rehabilitated_.”

Black Shadow does not relax—can not relax. He can feel those same thin fingers teasing at his valve, rubbing over his anterior node; with no charge and no desire to be found in his frame, the action only serves to hurt, sending sharp bolts of pain racing along Shadow's neural net. His hips jerk again as his node is grasped between two fingers, and then there's cold there, metal pressed against the sensitive component—

A click like a shot and _agony_ tears through his lower half. Even the bit gag is not enough to silence Black Shadow's scream as his node is stabbed, and it feels like his entire array is burning, he's going to be _sick_ —

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Tarn purrs, casting an admiring gaze to the little silver ring pierced through Shadow's glowing anterior node; he can hear the Phase Sixer's vents hitching and heaving, his frame still rocked by the intense pain, and with a rush of petty malice Tarn gives the tiny ring a sharp flick.

As Black Shadow's muffled scream echoes through the little room, Tarn smiles. He's never heard anything sweeter.


	2. Chapter 2

Black Shadow's torment only progresses. 

Still quaking, rocked by the pain of the new piercing, he's almost numb to the touches that come higher up; but the sensation of fingers delving into his recessed, depressurized spike's housing is enough to bring him back to awareness, and _quickly_.

His half-aborted bucks and thrashes are fruitless, serve only to make the room fill with Tarn's dark laughter—after a moment of it there's a soft brush of a hand against his cheek, a ghosting kind of contact that draws a muffled whimper from him, and a gust of vented hot air blows over his finial to let him know that Tarn is _that close_.

“Oh, I'm _sorry_ —did you want to _watch?_ ” Tarn's voice is a dark purr, black silk to Shadow's audials, and Shadow's vents hiccup sharply in reply—no, he doesn't want to watch, he wants it to _stop_. Wants them to just kill him already, end this humiliation, show him some kind of mercy; was he not a good Decepticon, before? Did he not give himself to his cause, in mind, spirit, and frame? Is that worth nothing? “Helex, be kind. Let him witness his most recent modification.”

The cloth leaves his optics, and Shadow's gaze snaps down—and his dentae gnash against the bit trapped between them, fangs catching and chipping on the unyielding metal, because there stands Vos over his array and there are _fingers_ in his spike housing, probing where they shouldn't be and sending mixed signals up through his backstruts that tangle and clash in his head, making him choke on a whining moan and jerk helplessly under the assault. Vos's thin fingers— _three of them_ , Shadow notes with rising hysteria, three fingers buried up to the third knuckle—slowly pump in and out of the slender channel, compressing the soft spike hidden away inside with every thrust and lighting up sensor nodes in ways they were never meant to be stimulated.

“Look at that.” Tarn's voice is light and amused, rattles Shadow's spark in a way so painful it brings coolant to his optics; he tries to squirm away, and Vos's fingers catch against the side of his housing in a way that can only be described as _violating_ , and Tarn laughs at his squeal. “Your spike is taking his fingers as easily as a valve would. Is that your secret, you treacherous little glitch? Are you a double-valved mech?”

Shadow doesn't—can't—dignify the question with a response; he's too concerned with the way Vos's fingers have stopped feeling around in his housing and instead focused on the inside rim, poking around with purpose. Shadow can only guess as to what he's looking for, each speculation more panicked than the last—but then Vos's fingers catch on something just inside the rim of his housing, a latch of sorts, and pain shoots through Shadow's array as it's wriggled—

Then _pulled—_

Something in his housing snaps wetly, something else breaks free, and Black Shadow throws his helm back with a muffled scream, coolant streaming down his faceplates. Static pulses across his optics and crackles through his audials, and one more burst of agony from his pelvic array is all it takes before he's knocked offline. His frame goes lax against the table he's splayed out on, and in his oblivion he's granted one small mercy: spared the torment of Tarn's mocking laughter. 

– – – 

When he comes online again, Black Shadow realizes he's been moved.  


Gone is the table, gone is the bit. Instead he finds himself on his knees, held upright only by a pressure around his neck, his thighs aching as though he's been there for days. After trying to move his helm and being met only with difficulty, he figures out that the struggle is actually caused by a _collar_ , thick and unyielding—and, if the burning that lingers in his neck plating is to be believed, _welded on_. The leash that attaches to it is only long enough to keep Black Shadow upright and is as merciless as he has come to expect from the DJD, keeping him held on his knees and refusing to budge, no matter how much he strains. 

Another fitful bout of squirming later, and he's discovered the collar isn't his only restraint. His wrists are still tied behind his back, and a probe around with his glossa tells him that his bit has been exchanged for a ring gag; that, at least, explains the ache in his jaw, the dryness of his mouth. His optics are again covered, leaving him blind—but after the last time he got to witness the alterations forced upon his frame, he's not sure if the burden of sight is really something he wants.

(Recalling the incident, Vos's invasion of his frame in such a perverse way, makes his pelvic array twinge in pain. He's too tired, too afraid of what he'll find, to really try to figure out why.)

Then he hears a door slide open. Heavy steps echo through the silence of the room, marred only by Shadow's quickening ventilations—when Tarn speaks, it's like a shot, makes him flinch as if he's been slapped. 

“Black Shadow.” A hand settles around one of his finials, using it to pull his helm from side to side and make him slowly sway; the motion strains the supports in his thighs and does nothing to help his wooziness, but seems to amuse Tarn. His engine purrs noisily. “Black Shadow...Black Shadow. I'm glad you're awake; I have exciting news for you. I've finally found a way for you to be useful again, since you _obviously_ can't be trusted on the battlefield anymore...”

Any reply Black Shadow would make is stolen by his fear, silenced by the gag; as it is all he can do is whine quietly, awaiting Tarn's news with dread. Then the touch to his finial is gone, and with it the band covering his optics, finally granting him the mercy of seeing his tormentor. 

And the first thing Black Shadow notices is his spike.

Long as his forearm and thicker than his fist, the same matte black of his frame, ridged in purple and trimmed with gold—and fully pressurized, straining inches from Black Shadow's face. His optics fix on it for a moment, utterly horrified by its size and closeness; then the grip on his finials returns, and he offlines his optics as his helm is pulled forward sharply.

“Since you have proven you can no longer serve the cause as a warrior...” The spike's tip nudges past Shadow's lips, a firm weight against his glossa; he tries to writhe, to pull back, but Tarn's grip on his finials is as merciless as the rest of him. The spike only invades deeper. “...you will serve _us_ , as a receptacle. Being humbled is an important part of changing your ways, my dear little coward.” 

Shadow has but a moment to be afraid of the words before the waste fluid floods his mouth. 

Bitter and oily, it fills him in a rush, and he would grimace but the ring gag keeps his lips stretched taut; as it is all he can do is try to lay his glossa flat and avoid tasting it, but even that is doomed to failure as it just collects and pools over his glossa, seemingly never-ending. He struggles fitfully where he's held against Tarn's array, his cries of protest lost in weak gurgles and Tarn's rumbling purr and it's only a moment later before he realizes that he's faced with a desperate decision: either swallow the fluid, or choke.

In the end, there is ultimately no choice. Despite how badly Black Shadow might want to, his self-preservation protocols will not let him end his life in such a way—and so with a weak, watery sob he forces the saline liquid down. It scalds his throat and sits heavy in his nigh-empty tanks, threatens to make him purge, but before he can even entertain that thought his attention is drawn back to the fresh wave of Tarn's waste that now fills his mouth, and his dilemma repeats.

“There you go,” Tarn croons all the while, smiling beneath his mask as he watches Black Shadow break and degrade himself before him, drinking down his piss like the dirtiest whore off the street. It's a good look for him, he decides: on his knees and humbled, a thick spike keeping his treacherous mouth occupied. “Keep going...this is all for your benefit, you know. It's only going to help you.”

He releases his grip on one finial, and gently touches his fingers to Black Shadow's cheek; after a flinch, a short hesitation—and some coaxing of Shadow's spark—teary red optics online again, look up anxiously at him. Tarn holds the gaze evenly as, finally, his flow of waste fluid starts to dwindle.

“There now. That wasn't so hard, was it?” he murmurs, slowly pulling his spike from Black Shadow's mouth, delighting in the way the Phase Sixer coughs and sputters weakly; the last spurts of Tarn's piss fleck over the open mouth, over Shadow's face, and while Shadow cringes under the spray Tarn chuckles. “Now lick me clean.”

There's only a beat of hesitation before Black Shadow relents, his optics dim and distant as he starts to lap clumsily over the head of Tarn's spike, cleaning off any drops of fluid that still cling to the surface. Tarn purrs as he watches the display, the hand holding Black Shadow's finial relaxing enough to give the dark helm a soft pat.

“Good boy.” Tarn hears the door open behind him again, and Shadow's optics come back to life as he, too, hears; he goes to pull away from the spike, but Tarn's hand is immediately a vice around his finial again, keeping him still, holding him steady. Tarn hears the other members of the DJD step up around him, feels the excitement and lust in their fields, and oh—the look of _fear_ on Black Shadow's wet face is priceless. 

“Now then,” Tarn hums, engine rumbling darkly. “Let's show the others what you've learned.”


	3. Chapter 3

He comes to live in bondage.

His days are a blur, marked only by the changing of positions—collared and tied on his back one day, suspended by his wrists on another, hung upside down by cruel hooks through the stumps that used to be wings on the next. Each time his position is changed, he faces more torment, and so he comes to take solace in the restraints that bind him, because as uncomfortable as they are they're not actively painful.

Most of the time.

Not like now—now sees him on his knees with a bar between his calves, holding his legs spread and his ever-bared valve on display. Now has him with his mouth open and tongue out, a cable looped around the stud pierced into his glossa and leading down to the floor, holding him bent with his wrists in mag-cuffs behind his back. The pressure of the cable tied to his newest piercing is excruciating any time he so much as quivers, and provides more than enough incentive for him to keep his cheek on the floor, keep himself bent and small.

But then his luck breaks—as it always does—and the door behind him opens, and the chuckle that he hears could be no other than Tarn.

“My my....what a pretty picture.” Tarn's steps are heavy as he rounds his pet—his plaything—and drops into a crouch by Shadow's helm, petting over his grimacing face with one big hand. “I have a treat for you today, my dearest traitor. Would you like to know what it is?”

Shadow _doesn't_ —not that that matters, because with his glossa tied in such a way he's rendered mute. Tarn seems to realize this as he trails one large finger over the cable, then gives it a cruel pluck, humming at Black Shadow's agonized moan. “No? Nothing? Oh well. I'll just have to _show_ you, then.”

He straightens, and Shadow panics; if there's anything that scares him more than Tarn, it's Tarn out of his line of sight. He flinches as fingertips trace along the seams of his hip joint, hears the other mech's laughter. “Shadow, Shadow...do calm down. This won't be any fun if you stay so... _tense_.”

Shadow feels the head of Tarn's spike nudge at the battered lips of his valve—part them gently, just enough to rock the tip of his spike inside Shadow. His vents let out a mighty sigh, and he sets his hands on Shadow's hips loosely, and Shadow is bewildered by the lack of motion when he suddenly feels it.

Something warm, something rushing into valve—running scalding along his inner walls, slicking him up internally, and he chokes when everything connects. 

Rage and shame war in his spark, threaten to tear him apart—he hates Tarn, hates the humiliating posture that he can do nothing to correct, hates the feeling of slick waste fluid streaming hot into his valve. He hates the way it thrills his deepest nodes and pools to stretch him in ways a spike never could, hates the cruel band of monsters that is the DJD, hates _himself_ and the moan that tears from his lips when Tarn gives his anterior node ring a tug—

He overloads with a scream—of pain, pleasure, it doesn't matter because no one listening cares. All that matters is the way his valve tightens around Tarn's spike, the spill of oily fluids pushed out to dribble down sleek red thighs; Shadow trills helplessly at the sensation, optics rolling back, and Tarn's retort is a chuckle, followed by a heavy, condescending pat on Shadow's helm.

“Good bird,” he murmurs, voice a vibrating purr—it rumbles all the way to Shadow's spark, makes it rattle unnervingly, makes him whimper. His freshly-pierced tongue aches, feels heavy in his mouth. “We'll get you trained yet, won't we? Make you into a _good soldier_...”

Shadow can only offline his optics and keen softly in reply, a tremor passing through him. He feels coolant welling in his optics but he refuses to acknowledge it, acknowledge what it means—he won't cry, _Phase Sixers_ don't cry—and he lays there on the cold floor and tries, desperately, to forget the sensation of overloading to the feeling of his most hated enemy _pissing in his valve_.

He finds it impossible. The shame burning white-hot at the bottom of his tanks, the slick warmth on his thighs and array—it keeps him grounded, aware, and humiliated, disgusted by his own depravity. And Tarn smiles as he watches, enjoying immensely the sight of the beautiful frame breaking down in front of him; he reaches out to pet over the panels of Black Shadow's broad back, chuckling when the Phase Sixer flinches away from his touch like a startled turbofox. 

“Don't worry, pet.” Tarn traces his fingers lightly over the vents in Shadow's sides—as if it's not enough to invade him in all his holes, as if he needs to assert his claim on every piece of Shadow's frame. “I'm not done yet.”


End file.
